


Labels

by killingeveforever



Series: Villaneve oneshots [1]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Post s3e6, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:13:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24358633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killingeveforever/pseuds/killingeveforever
Summary: Eve reflects on what brought her to her current position as she strolls through Spain. Labels were power, but now she believes they are becoming her downfall.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: Villaneve oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758697
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	Labels

Labels. We stick them to ourselves, to each other. But sometimes, they stick in the wrong places, dig into the skin, just like those uncomfortable washing instructions on a new shirt until you no longer wear it. 

Eve is sick of them. She’d been around long enough to find a few labels that fitted and is wise enough to know that some of those that she’d so hastily placed onto her were ones that didn’t, or don’t fit. But it is almost too late now, those words have become intertwined with her identity, her very being, and everything she knows. 

Labels are powerful. 

She knows that. Hell, half of her career would be nothing without them. If that businessman hadn’t labelled all women as people who weren’t a threat, he wouldn’t have had a slice through his femoral artery, and Eve would probably still be working at MI5. But he did, so his fatal labelling showed a great weakness. That is why, in what felt like a lifetime ago, she had been so proud when it was revealed that the assassin was female. 

Criminal psychology is built upon labels. Social constructs and schemata, all had fascinated her in her junior year of college, and it was these definitions and debates that had caused her lack of sleep over the past two years. Warped moral compasses: killing is always wrong, killing can be right. Her knowledge of everything she thought she knew had been turned upon its head more times than she could possibly count. The continuous dichotomisation of her youth had been replaced with never-ending patterns of various shades of grey. 

She had tried so hard to stick to the labels, box everything she was feeling into pretty boxes in her mind, but by the time she left Rome she no longer saw point in it. Now, she muddles her way through her moral code, makes decisions she would have cringed at with no guilt. 

Her own identity. The Asian-American roots that she prefers not to look back on, but that society around her seems to care so much about. People on the tube constantly assuming that she is a tourist, rather than lost in a city that she has lived him for the vast majority of her adult life. Racist remarks that she tries so hard to ignore, but they get to her all the same. Labels that she despises, but that have stuck to her all the same. Labels that tell her how she should feel, how she should act, how she should be. The middle-aged woman, with her mid-life crisis. The soon to be divorcee, living miles from any family at all. The aging loser, whose friendship circle grows smaller by the day.   
They tell her how she should be grieving. The truth is, she has no idea what she should be grieving for anymore. Bill sure, but Frank, Niko? Her marriage to a loving man who had done nothing but be kind to her. Things that society labelled as safe, as positive as something to treasure, but all she could associate them with is boredom. Everything that previously gave her power is now exactly what is causing her to feel so weak. 

Then there are the labels that she’s tried so hard not to face. The ones that force her to admit that what she feels for Villanelle, for Oksana Astankova and whoever she really is on the inside. The ones that question all her relationships with women in the past, as she now notices interactions and encounters that she had previously overlooked during her college days. But the scariest thing is that Villanelle’s assumption that they are the same is now far more true than she ever thought would be possible. 

She realises in the bowling alley, that Villanelle’s relationship with labels must be something similar. Termed a “killing machine” by someone Eve had initially deemed as someone close to her. Evidently not. But as Eve talks to the former assassin and Dasha reminds her that she can kill her if that is what she chooses, she feels no fear. Not anymore. Whether it’s from a recent desensitisation to any form of violence these days, or something different entirely Eve is not sure. Either way, the label of an assassin no longer strikes fear in her heart, the one thing that Dasha has over her is not there. Perhaps it’s because she proved weeks ago she hasn’t “still got it”, perhaps not. Eve is far too exhausted to worry about that now. Instead, she focuses her energy on following the older woman through the Spanish streets. 

But Villanelle is no machine. Sure, she’s been moulded by her experiences, but she can make choices. Eve knows from personal experience that the Russian cannot be manipulated, not for long. As much as she hates to admit it, Villanelle feels things too. 

“I know that you’re a psychopath.” Eve hates that she said those words, at that fateful dinner so many nights ago. What she hates more is how she no longer knows if they are true.   
Labels can be stuck too hastily. Forced upon people when they don’t quite fit, hanging over them like oversized sweaters which disguise a person’s true frame. And at first glance, Eve knows, she knows that Villanelle is a psychopath. She’s impulsive, over-confident, manipulative, and has an almost non-existent moral code. On the surface, she is a textbook example of a psychopath. 

Eve stands outside a lavish apartment, hears familiar hisses of pain that make her insides squirm and murmurs and whispering and a phone call for pizza and Dasha leaving. 

She enters the apartment. 

It’s even more luxurious than the one in Paris, but this one is less lived in. All bare countertops and high ceilings. It’s grandly impersonal. It’s almost familiar, but not quite.   
It’s only when she enters the bathroom that she knows for certain that the girl is not just those things. There is nothing inaccessible about her pain. The lost look in her eye is no longer direct, in fact the only thing that is chilling is that Eve is almost entirely convinced that Villanelle hasn’t even noticed her presence in the room. The Villanelle she saw on the bus, the one that shot her in Rome is not the Villanelle in front of her right now. 

As she watches, transfixed at the helpless display of emotion, she can see that the labelling Villanelle as a psychopath should be more complicated. She may be impulsive, but Eve can’t convince herself that that doesn’t stem from a playful nature and a lot of boredom. Eve can’t quite believe that the Villanelle who told her she loved her isn’t more knowledgeable on love than Eve herself. And she has limits, even if those limits are past killing her own mother. She’s reminded of the fact that despite so much opportunity, she doesn’t touch Niko. Villanelle is a mess of contradictions, and Eve wants to know and understand all of them. 

She eases herself next to the girl, her back hits the cool ceramic of the bathtub and she reaches for the younger’s hand. She waits, holding her breath slightly so not to startle her. The cat-like eyes widen slightly as their hands touch before they glaze over once more. Eve sighs, bringing the younger woman’s body towards her in a hug. She holds her lightly, but Villanelle clings to her like she’s a lifeboat taking her back to shore. 

She feels the other shaking for the next half an hour, so murmurs gently soft, unassuming words of comfort until her shoulder no longer becomes damper.   
“I told you.” A quiet voice says into her shoulder, rough and scratchy due to her emotional ordeal. “I do feel things when I’m with you.”  
Eve decides she’s done with labels. Done with pretending that the woman in front of her is nothing but a cold machine. Done with pretending that there isn’t more to their relationship than just the thrill of the chase. 

Eve rolls her eyes, chuckling slightly. “You don’t need to be with me to feel things Villanelle.” As she sees the lips of the younger point to pout in protest, she places a gentle kiss on her forehead. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” She says as she moves away from the girl, who stubbornly keeps hold of one hand. Rather than snatch it back, the Asian woman simply lets her hold onto it, despite the fact that it makes her job of cleaning the wound more difficult. 

“I’ve never done this before.” She apologises as she sees Villanelle wince in pain. 

She rolls her eyes. “It’s okay. I know what I’m doing.” Still holding on to her elder’s hand, she bites her lip as she uses her non-injured arm’s hand to wipe away any excess blood. Together, they work silently to fit a dressing over the stitching, save for Villanelle cursing at Dasha’s messy stitching. 

It’s late by the time Eve finishes cleaning the bathroom, and the pizza Dasha ordered is stone cold. The pair don’t mind, eating in relaxed positions side by side on Villanelle’s luxurious sofa. 

“Stay for a movie?” she asks with a hopeful voice and wide, expectant eyes.

As Eve pretends to be reluctant as she agrees, she muses that Villanelle is just as much a spoilt toddler as a psychopath. She has no idea why the rest of the world can’t see it.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading :)


End file.
